


Pleasantly Caving

by wehangout



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, little bit of smut in the first paragraph
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 14:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5460293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wehangout/pseuds/wehangout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t want them to know yet," you tell him. "I want … I want this, you and me, to stay ours for a while longer.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pleasantly Caving

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2015 Gallavich Gift Exchange for [agressive-chinchilla-noise](http://agressive-chinchilla-noise.tumblr.com/). They asked for: Domestic Mickey and Ian, Fluff, Humor, Happy Gallaghers, Svetlana and Ian being friends - I think I got in everything except the humour! Fluff isn't usually my thing, so I kind of ran with an idea and I hope you like it!
> 
> Title comes from "No One Knows" by Queens of the Stone Age

The day starts out good. Great, even. You wake late on a Sunday morning to warm sun streaming through the slightly open window and Ian’s lips wrapped tightly around your dick. It takes you only moments to come hard, the entire situation taking you by surprise, and Ian grins at you when he pulls back.

“Mornin’,” Ian says.

You grunt out the best reply you can and reach down to thread your fingers through his hair. His smile widens at your lack of coherency, and he bites sharply at the inside of your thigh.

You pull away. “Fucker.”

“Made you breakfast,” he says, nosing at his bite mark. “Pancakes, waffles, bacon … the works.”

You sigh happily, tightening your fingers to pull him up to you, pretty damn sure breakfast can wait, but he pulls away with a chuckle.

“C’mon,” he says, scratching his nails down the back of your thigh. “Food’s getting cold.”

You watch him leave through heavy-lidded eyes, only maybe ten-percent pissed that he didn’t stay and continue fooling around. The other ninety-percent is still in a post-hummer afterglow. You’ve been doing this thing with Ian, this thing where you do more than just hang out as friends, for nearly two months now, and the mind-blowing feel of his mouth on you is still amazing.

Throwing on the first pair of boxers you find, you head into Ian’s kitchen, the scent of too-strong coffee filling your nose. You breathe it in deeply, the smell alone helping clear your foggy head, and you fight a smile at the sight of Ian standing at the counter, his back to you.

You can’t help yourself, and it’s so fucking dumb. You go to him, wrap your arms tightly around his bare stomach, and press your forehead into the smooth skin between his shoulder blades.

“Someone woke up in a good mood,” he says. He doesn’t turn, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Someone woke up with their dick in their boyfriend’s mouth. In what universe isn’t that good?”

Ian squeezes your wrist gently. “Eat your breakfast.”

You eat your breakfast, ignoring his beaming smile when he sits next to you at the counter. Sure, you’re full of warm and fuzzies for this guy, but you still prefer to keep that to yourself, thanks. Especially when he looks at you like you’re the light of his fucking life and words about feelings begin bubbling in your chest …

“How’re the pancakes?” he asks around a mouthful of bacon.

The morning head should have given it away because Ian can’t suck your dick without getting hard himself and then fucking you into the mattress - or, at the very least, rutting against you until he comes on your stomach. But if that wasn’t enough then the over-the-top breakfast and too strong coffee - the kind he refuses to make because it’ll rot away your stomach lining eventually - should have made you suspicious. At least.

But it’s his puppy-dog eyes when he asks you how your breakfast is that gives it away.

You put your fork down, chew the suddenly dry food in your mouth, then turn to him with raised eyebrows.

“What?”

His eyes get wider. “What what?”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s Debbie’s birthday.”

“No.”

“Mick -”

You shove a fork full of sausage into your mouth and talk around it. “Not happening.”

Ian’s silent for a long moment, but you don’t look at him. You know he’s giving you that look, the one that gets him everything he damn well wants, but you won’t give into this, not without a fight.

“You have to come to dinner,” he finally says. “It’ll be weird if you don’t.”

“No it won’t.”

“You’ve come to every birthday dinner or family celebration or - or … or _party_ since we became friends! If don’t come tonight, they’ll ask questions.”

You throw him a scowl. “Let them.”

He gives you the chin, and you know exactly what he’s going to say right before he says it. “You can’t do this to Debbie. She’ll be devastated if you don’t show.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“I’m right, though, and you know it.”

You sigh and sit your fork down. He is right. You don’t know what it is about the red-headed Gallaghers, but they seem far too fond of you … and the feeling is disgustingly mutual.

“Fine,” you tell him, not meeting his gaze. “I’ll go.”

“Good.”

“But this -” You wave a hand between the two of you. “- this stays between us. As far as everyone else is concerned, we’re still just friends.”

“Whatever you say, Mick.”

“I mean it, Ian. I don’t want them knowing yet.”

He shrugs and goes back to his food. “I won’t tell them anything you don’t want me to.”

And you believe him. Because that’s what your relationship with Ian has become.

\---

“You know they wouldn’t care, right?”

You shuffle on the Gallaghers’ door step, tugging your gloves on tighter despite the fact that you’ll be taking them off within the next minute. “I know.”

“They’ll be happy for us, Mick.”

“I know.”

“I mean, we only became friends after Fiona set us up on that disaster of a date.”

“I know.”

“And they’ve all joked about us multiple times, you know? They pretty much want us to be together -”

“Ian.” You turn and place your hand on his arm, hating the layers between his skin and yours. “I know all this, okay? I do. It’s just …”

“Just what?”

“I don’t want them to know yet. I want … I want this, you and me, to stay ours for a while longer.”

Ian smiles, but the gooey look on his face doesn’t hide the disappointment. “Okay, Mick. That sounds fair.”

He knocks on the door before you can say another word, and the guilt begins to eat away at you until Fiona pulls the door open and drags you both inside. Then it’s a mess of greetings, trying to get your coat and scarf and gloves off, and the loud music coming from the living room stereo.

You make it into the living room eventually - having lost Ian somewhere between Carl’s fist bump and Svetlana’s snide remark about the hickey on your neck - to give Debbie her gift and ruffle her hair. She glares at the hair ruffle, but beams in delight at the Dutch dictionary. Kid’s a language freak; who would’ve thought?

You look around for Ian once Debbie’s engrossed in her book, telling yourself that it’s not weird. You and Ian have been connected at the hip since that set up from Fiona … just because you and Ian are now a _you-and-Ian_ , and no one else knows it, doesn’t make you looking for him weird.

The smile that slights its way to your face when he comes into the living room, a beer in each hand, probably does. He hands you one, lid already off, fingers sliding subtly against your own.

“I set aside some of the fruit salad for you,” he says.

“Thanks, man. Did you pick the strawberries out?”

Ian looks insulted. “Of course.”

And because you feel a little guilty at not allowing him to tell the secret he so desperately wants to, because he brought you a beer, because he picked the goddamn strawberries out of the fruit salad for you, you lean close and speak quietly into his ear.

“You’re a relatively decent boyfriend.”

It’s not the biggest compliment you’ve given him - Lord knows you said much more than morning in bed - but the use of the word _boyfriend_  always has him grinning like an idiot. He opens his mouth to reply, but is cut off when Fiona calls your name. She comes to stand right in front of you, some dude’s arm clasped tightly in her claws.

“Mickey! This here’s Jackson. He just started at work with me last week and he’s in the market for a new car. I thought maybe you could give him some advice.”

You barely glance at the guy next to her. “I fix cars. I don’t sell them.”

She gives a far too fake laugh and shoves your shoulder, as though you just told the funniest joke she’s ever heard. “You’re funny. And you’re, like, a car genius. You know everything there is to know, right? C’mon, surely you can help my friend out a little?”

You lick at your teeth and try to ignore Ian shifting beside you. “I guess.”

“Great!” She let’s go of Jackson and shoves him slightly towards you. “I bet you guys have a ton in common - Mickey, did you know Jackson’s allergic to strawberries, too?”

“Well, being that we just met, I can’t say I did.”

She giggles again and walks off, slight bounce to her step. You watch her go for as long as you can before looking awkwardly up at Jackson.

He’s not ugly, that’s for sure, but he’s not what you would be looking for if you were looking. Which you’re not. Because Ian. Only Fiona doesn’t know about Ian, and neither does Jackson. In fact, going by the awkward way he’s looking at anything but you, he didn’t even know he was being set up tonight.

“Well,” he says, finally meet you gaze, “that wasn’t subtle at all.”

“Yeah.”

Ian shifts beside you again and you very quickly realise just how uncomfortable this whole situation is. You know what you should do - that you should tell Jackson you’re sorry, you’re sure he’s a great guy, but you’re just not interested, in fact you’re kind of totally taken - but you can’t bring the words to leave your mouth.

If you tell Jackson, you’ll have to tell everybody.

“I, uh …. I’m gonna leave you guys to it,” Ian says, and heads for the kitchen before you can process the look on his face.

\---

“You’re angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Bullshit.”

“Mick, I’m not angry.”

“What are you, then?”

Ian shrugs and leans back against the door to his old bedroom, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m nothing.”

“Again, bullshit.”

“Do you like him?”

You frown. “Do I like who?”

“The guy. _Jackson.”_

You reach out a hand to slide along his hip. “I like you.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Yes it does.” But just in case it doesn’t, you lean in and kiss him hard, making sure he knows exactly how you feel about who.

\---

Dinner is … weird. It’s both more awkward than it should be and not nearly as awkward as you would expect. Fiona’s done this before - at least once a month since you and Ian became friends - and you’re used to it, used to her setting you up with whatever gay guy she meets whether he’s at all your type or not.

The blatant set up shouldn’t be weird, but it is because all you can think about while Fiona talks both you and Jackson up to each other is Ian.

And Ian is exactly why it’s not weird. Ian sits next to you, as usual, his knee pressing gently against your own beneath the table. Ian picks beans off your plate, right out of your stew, knowing you won’t eat them. Ian passes you the salt as you open your mouth to ask for it. This dumb set up by Fiona is awkward because she doesn’t know that you’re with her brother, but her brother is the only thing keeping you calm.

Her brother is the only thing that’s kept you calm for a while now.

“So, uh, Mickey,” Jackson begins, glancing between you and an eager Fiona. “I haven’t been able to get a good look - what do the tattoos on your knuckles say?”

Ian chokes on his potatoes and you hand him your beer without glancing at him. Then you hold out your hands so Jackson can see your tattoos. He stares silently for a few moments, then grins.

“Well, more original than _love_ and _hate,_ right?”

You’re tempted to tell him how you got the ink just to impress - stay on the good side of? Perhaps - your homophobic, violent, shit-talking dad, but you just nod and shove some more beef into your mouth. Fiona sighs loudly, her disappointment evident.

\---

“You’re hopeless,” Fiona says to you a while later. The party’s in full swing, you’ve barely said a word to Jackson, and you can’t take your eyes off Ian. You take the beer she hands you and drag your gaze over to meet hers. “I don’t know why I bother anymore.”

You glance at Ian again. He’s talking to Jackson, which should bother you, but doesn’t. Especially when his eyes flicker over to you every minute or so.

You take a long drink and look back at Fiona. “Then why do you?”

“I have my reasons.”

“But why not Ian? Last person I heard you set him up with was with me.”

“That’s because the last person I set Ian up with was you.”

“And no one since? Jesus Christ, when did I become the loser getting set up with someone at every family event.”

Fiona stares at you for a long minute before replying. “Since Ian came home from that disaster of a date with you and begged me not to set him up with anyone else.”

“He … what?”

“The day after your date. He came for lunch, told me everything that went wrong - the misunderstanding in the parking lot before the date even began, the homophobic couple at the table next to you, the incident with the sauce on your steak -”

“That waitress was an idiot,” you mutter.

“And he told me that he didn’t want me to set him up on anymore blind dates.”

You frown. “I mean, the date was bad, but I didn’t realise it was worth giving up dating over.”

“Yeah, well. To be honest, I’ve been hoping the two of you would sort your shit out and get together. Then I could stop setting either of you up.”

“What’re you talking about? You set me up constantly!”

“Yeah, with guys who are totally not your type.” She glances around the room and lowers her voice. “Please. You think _Jackson_ is the kind of guy I’d seriously choose for you? Even I know he’s boring as fuck. I was just hoping you’d eventually see what was right in front of you …”

Right in front of you. You turn to look at Ian. He’s talking quietly to Svetlana and you watch him for a long time, ignoring the glares Svetlana throws in your direction. She’s the only one who knows, and she only knows because she walked in on the two of you fucking on your couch one afternoon a few weeks back. But you know she’s on Ian’s side. She’s always on Ian’s side. She’s the receptionist at the garage you work at, but she’s on Ian’s side.

You look back at Fiona. “He seriously told you not to set him up with anyone else?”

“Yeah,” she says, eyes soft.

It might not be a big deal. Might not mean anything. Except that you know it is a big deal, know that it definitely means something.

You set your beer bottle on the coffee table and walk over to Ian, ignoring Fiona’s questions gaze and Svetlana’s arched eyebrow. He smiles when he sees you, opens his mouth to say something, but you stop him.

“You told Fiona to stop setting you up?”

He throws a glance toward his sister and then shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

He gives you a look, a look you’ve only ever seen him give you, and though his face reddens slightly, he just shrugs again.

“Ian.”

“We should talk about this later,” he says. “When there are less people around.”

He’s saying it for your benefit, because you don’t want them knowing. You stare at him, hoping desperately that you’re even able to give him a look that’s even slightly similar to the one he gives you.

“Tell me now.”

He swallows hard. “Fine. After that date with you I told her stop setting me up. Our date was a fucking mess, and so fucking stupid, but …

“But?”

“But I wanted to date you again. And again. I told her not to set me up anymore because I’d already met the only person I wanted to date.”

Your heart thuds quickly as you stare at him. Now - now that you and Ian are together, that you’ve been together for a while, that you’re definitely more than just friends - you’re not surprised. But you had been. When Ian had first kissed you, given you that look you’ve come to ache to see, you had been surprised.

“Christ, Ian.”

“Mick, I’m sorry -”

You cut him off with a harsh, meaningful, devastating kiss. You don’t care about Svetlana smirking next to you, you don’t care about Ian’s family watching, and you sure as shit don’t care about the dude you were set up with tonight.

You care about Ian - his gasp into your mouth, his hands fisting into your shirt, his beautiful smile as he pulls back - and that’s pretty much it. He gives you a sheepish look as you wipe a tiny bit of spit from the corner of his mouth.

“Hey, Mick?”

You scratch lightly at the hairs on the nape of his neck. “Yeah?”

“I think they know.”

“Oh well.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

To answer, you kiss him again.

 

 

 


End file.
